


What Did You Just Call Me? (Your Name, Fatass.)

by Ros3mary



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Only because the boys are idiots, Pining, canon typical language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 05:27:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18888097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ros3mary/pseuds/Ros3mary
Summary: A new habit of Simmons’s is, unfortunately, Grif’s new top reason to flush bright red and lose all trains of thought in fiery crashes and Blue Team level dramatic explosions.





	1. Chapter 1

Grif rifled through the cupboard, his hands pushing against various bland cans and boxes until he got to the good stuff at the back, where he grabbed a whole blue case of Oreos and a S'mores PopTart packet. 

Deciding to go through with the extra few minutes of effort of toasting the PopTarts to get that gooey S’mores filling hot, he tore off the silver foil wrapping (that he totally left on Simmons’s clean counter), popped the two PopTarts in the Spanish-speaking toaster, then promptly ripped open the case of Oreos and shoved a whole cookie into his mouth ASAP. He turned and leaned against the counter, the edge digging into the small of his back in an uncomfortable yet ignorable way. He wasted no time breaking in the brand new case of Oreos. His last meal had been a whole night away. Well, wait, half a night away. He’d forgotten about his three-course midnight “snack”. But whatever. Who was counting?

“Oreos and PopTarts for breakfast? Didn’t you eat a fridge’s worth of food last night at 3 A.M.?”

Right. Simmons was.

“For the record, PopTarts are a breakfast food. And how’d you know about my midnight snack last night?” Grif retaliated around the Oreos in his mouth, raising a lazy eyebrow at Simmons. 

“I heard you. _And_  I cleaned up your shit this morning. You made a whole buffet!” Simmons retorted, his eyes flipping up away from the boring, effort-filled paperwork fanning around him on the Red Team table like sunflower petals to glare at Grif. He was in civilian outfitting, they both wore, so Grif had the privilege of seeing the nerd’s wild ginger bedhead, sunsplashed freckles on his human half spanning like a galaxy on his pale Dutch-Irish skin, and eyes, one green, one robotic, sparking with irritation. 

_Wait, privilege?_ Grif thought, sporting the ghost of a frown as he spun the word around in his head. _What’s that supposed to mean?_ “Whatever.” He said flippantly. “What were you doing up at 3 A.M.?”

Simmons’s expression shifted from irritation to a barely held together neutrality. “It doesn’t matter,” He said quickly, shoving his nose back in his flower-work of papers. 

A PopTart scented silence followed, void of human voices, the room occupied only by the scratching of Simmons’s pencil, Grif chewing Oreos, and the ticking of the clock on the wall. 

Finally, the PopTarts sprung up, bouncing against the toaster’s heated walls and generally making both of the room’s inhabitants jump. Grif turned and grabbed a paper plate, put the PopTarts on said paper plate, the plate balanced precariously on the Oreos, then held that in one hand so as to grab a can of Diet Coke from the fridge.

As he was passing Simmons, with all of his sweet-smelling PopTart and Oreos glory, he heard the redhead snort incredulously. 

Grif stopped and turned with a dramatic sigh, cocking his eyebrow at his ‘friend’. Using the term loosely, of course. What do you call “most tolerable person in this stupid war you’ve been drafted into but also the source of most of your wet dreams”? 

“Got something you wanted to say?” The orange soldier (not gold, not yellow, orange.) sighed. 

Simmons dragged his gaze up almost lazily, which was an unfamiliar term to the man’s behavioral descriptions, and started pointedly at Grif’s plate. “PopTarts and Oreos,” He stated. Grif groaned internally. Simmons’s eyes drifted to Grif’s other hand, and he added, “and Diet Coke. For breakfast.”

“We’ve already been over this.” Grif said with feigned tiredness. While he did, of course, want to _eat_ said breakfast, he was also freakishly pleased to be talking to Simmons. Grif ignored this part of him almost dutifully. “Besides, it’s my body.”

“And my organs!” Simmons exploded, finally putting down his pencil. There he goes again, making that same argument. “You’re going to kill yourself. Is that how you want to die, Grif? One too many PopTarts? You’re a space marine, for fuck’s sake! At least attempt to die heroically, in a blaze of glory!”

“That sounds like work, Simmons. You know how I feel about work.” Grif pointed calmly. “And death by PopTarts? That’s like my top third way to go. Try to make a better argument.”

Simmons rolled his eyes, picked up his pencil, and stubbornly went back to whatever work he was doing. “Fine.” He said. “You know I don’t give a shit.”

Grif stood there for a moment, S’mores PopTarts cooling in his hand, before speaking again. “You know, Simmons, you need to lighten up. Maybe if you had a PopTart once in a while you wouldn’t be such an asshole. I’m gonna go eat now, but before I do, I’m leaving you with a parting gift.”

Grif lifted the paper plate, balanced precariously on a bright blue case of Oreos to his face and simply blew, sending off a dozen of tan crumbs that scattered into Simmons’s plate like rain. 

With a smug smile, Grif turned away from a flabbergasted Simmons, but was stopped instantly, dead in his tracks when he heard a low, threatening “Dexter...” growled behind him.

Grif was frozen, blushing before he could even comprehend what had happened, burning and confused. That was the first time Simmons had ever used Grif’s first name. Over the Hawaiian raining PopTart crumbs on his paperwork.

The question remained: Why did Grif like it so much?

“What did you just call me?” Grif said lowly, not looking over his shoulder at Simmons, or daring to risk the other seeing the deep red flushing his patchwork of tan and fair skin, alighting his borrowed red freckles. Simmons probably saw the red tips of Grif’s ears, anyways. 

“Your name, fatass.” Simmons retorted casually. Grif could hear skin against paper, probably Simmons brushing the crumbs away, then the scratching of a pencil.

Grif stood there, floundering and flushed dumbly, for an alarming amount of long seconds. 

“Whatever.” He finally mumbled angrily, storming off to go blush and eat in privacy. 

He didn’t even eat a _fourth_ of the Oreos that morning.


	2. Chapter 2

“Grif?”

The name, accompanied by armored footsteps, echoed down the hall.

When a maroon helmet popped around around the corner, along with a less questioning “Grif!”, the orange plated solider jumped, hooked violently out of his thoughts. For some reason, his dumbass tried to salute, but his surprise made his movements jerky and hurried and he just ended up smacking himself in the helmet. Hard.

“Ow! Shit!” He spluttered, covering half with visor with his gloved hand as Simmons laughed unhelpfully. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Simmons gasped between laughs, seeming very amused. Far too amused. “Grif!” He breathed.

Grif wilted, burning under the protection of his helmet, still covering part of his visor with his hand as if that would do anything. 

It’d been _days_ since the breakfast... incident. Why was Grif still waiting for Simmons to call him Dexter again? 

“Did I hear a slap down there?” Donut’s lightish-red voice drifted down from the base’s top. “Are you boys administering spankings without me?”

Grif did something intelligent like choke on his next breath of air, muttered something that sounded like “oh, god,” and high-tailed it out of there. He wanted absolutely no part in the scene that might follow.

His orange boots clamped heavily against the concrete floor of Red Team’s base. His feet were carrying him to who knows where and he allowed it, too focused on the turmoil in his brain to bother dealing with any external problems.

That is, until he heard Simmons’s breathless voice yelling “Wait, Grif!” and the orange solider picked up the pace, almost running out of the base.

God, _Simmons_.

Everything about the maroon soldier was complicated and confusing, where it used to be easy. 

Like the alarming amount of time Grif had spent thinking about Simmons saying his name, his first name, from different angles and positions, and how two days ago Simmons has started to undress in their shared room, casual, how they always did, but the first exposed plane of pale skin ranging from Simmons’s shoulder blades to the small of his back had sent Grif into a panic and he fled. Or how Grif had apparently been spacing out enough on a daily basis to try and salute _Simmons_ (and smack himself in the process), or how every time the redhead was in civilian clothes Grif was either filled with panic or enraptured between Simmons’s singular twinkling forest green eye and the cosmos of sunkissed red freckles that occupied almost every inch, every centimeter of Simmons’s skin. Grif wanted to count and kiss every tiny freckle, something both terrifying and 100% true, and (you won’t believe this-) it made Grif _panic_. 

Plus, apparently, he rambles like Simmons now. 

But _why_? Grif couldn’t find the answer for himself. Why were his thoughts more complex than any Church-related plot in the past? It was frustrating, and complicated, and just a little scary, and it spurred the motivation to all out avoid Simmons as much as possible, which, by the way, he was beginning to think the latter had picked up on.

“Grif! Where are you going?”

The orange plated soldier made it all the way to the cliffs before a hand clamped down on his shoulder and spun him around. 

“Grif.” Simmons said. Well, he probably said more, yeah, he was definitely still talking, but his maroon helmet was nowhere to be seen so naturally Grif’s eyes, one chocolate coloured, one green, had locked onto Simmons’s moving mouth, thoughts alternating between the repeat of “Grif” over and over and mourning the loss of how much better “Dexter” would sound in Simmons’s mouth. Simmons was still talking, and Grif still couldn’t hear him. The thought had flashed across his mind and left burning, steaming impacts that he should pull Simmons against his chest, or maybe get both of them down on the grass, put that mouth to good work...

Maybe Grif was going insane. Maybe Simmons had never growled “Dexter” in a low voice on some nondescript morning, no hazy honey like morning light or birds singing outside to even make it memorable, no, maybe he’d said “Grif” like he always has, always does, or maybe he’d said nothing at all and Grif’s mind was going insane, filling in blanks. 

“Dexter! Are you listening to me?” Simmons snapped, and that finally got through to Grif. 

He jumped, blushed, and stammered something like “I... uh, I... uhm...”

“I thought so.” Simmons’s human skin was flushing red, lighting up all his freckles in all the right ways. He looked angry, but then again, he usually did. He’d probably been rambling, like he always did when he got flustered, and Grif hated himself, briefly, for knowing exactly what that’d sound like. “I was asking why you’re avoiding me.”

“I haven’t been avoiding you.” Grif lied, looking away.

Suddenly hands were on his neck, then lifting his helmet, then pulling away quickly, as if burned. Grif was startled into direct eye contact with Simmons when his patchwork of burning red skin came into view. 

Simmons looked equal parts determined and terrified, with a large dose of flustered, and Grif imagined he looked the same. 

“At least have the decency to look at me when you lie to me.” Simmons said without venom. Grif said nothing. “Is it because I called you Dexter? That one time? Look, I’m sorry. I thought you’d be cool with it. I don’t know why I did. I won’t do it again, okay? Can we go back to normal now?”

Grif took one long glance at the red flush leading down past Simmons’s neck into beyond his armor, the visible line of his throat, and he had a lot of thoughts about it.

The final verdict: _fuck it_.

Grif walked towards the maroon soldier confidently, shedding all doubts the moment his brain told him “ _either he wants to bone as hard as you do, or he doesn’t. Might as well go down aiming for the good deal, right?”_

Simmons’s back hit the rock behind him, and his eyes were as wide as saucers, somehow looking up at Grif even though he was shorter. 

Grif advanced until he was right up against Simmons, pressing them together hips up, putting his legs either side of the maroon soldier’s, effectively pinning him.

“Don’t think you can get out of this that easily.” Grif said lowly, staring intensely into Simmons’s eyes. His human pupil was blown, he was as red as Sarge’s armor, and trembling slightly. Grif moved closer until their lips were almost touching, despite heavy maroon and orange armor in the way. “Now I _wanna_ hear you say it.”

Simmons floundered, but didn’t look displeased. “Say... Dexter?” He breathed, wetting his lips nervously.

Grif smirked, pulling back a little, completely confident for someone so flustered just a few moments ago. “Bingo.” He said as he pulled away. “You got it.”

Before he could get very far, Simmons was pulling him back until they were flush again, and then lips were connecting with Grif’s, hard and clumsy and with a certain air of desperation that made Grif’s pupils blow, eyes wide open, staring at Simmons’, scrunched close as if he were in pain. 

Slowly, Grif opened into the kiss, moving Simmons’s fast and clumsy pace into a lazy, languid thing, pressing the redhead back into the stone wall as he relinquished control to Grif, savoring how Simmons melted unceremoniously against Grif. 

After what must have been minutes of a lazy, goalless, open mouthed kiss, Grif pulled back and moved to Simmons’s neck, nudging the redhead’s chin up to mouth at the soft spot just below the other’s jaw.

Simmons whined softly, and Grif pushed harder, determined to leave a flowering bruise where he’d been.

“Dex...” Simmons moaned softly, hushed, and Grif reeled back, eyes wide, meeting the other’s just as surprised gaze. “Should we, ah...” He gestured vaguely at the base. “I mean, can we...”

Without wasting time talking, Grif grabbed Simmons’s arm and pulled him swiftly towards base.

He was determined to hear Simmons moan his name like that a thousand more times by the end of the night.

This was work he was willing to do.


	3. Epilogue

“What are they doing now?”

“Tucker, I swear to God, if I have to answer that question one more time. They’re still just standing there, and they’re still just talking. They _never do anything else._ ”

“Then why do we even do these dumbass patrols? And why do you bring me along and never let me use the goddamn sniper rifle-“

Wash sighed, tuning him out, zooming in the rifle on Grif and Simmons, standing pretty far from their base, just standing there... and talking. 

He’d continued with these idiotic “scouting missions” in an attempt to give Caboose and Tucker some familiarity, not to mention distance from Caboose (who proclaimed Wash his new best friend) and time with Tucker (to maybe get the idiot to stop hating him). But, really, Church had to be some class-A dumbass if he did these as often as Tucker verified he did. 

Really, the reds never do _anything_. They were just standing there and talking, same as last week, same as yesterday, always just talking, and Wash couldn’t even know what they were saying. 

Just watching them stand there and talk. That’s it. That’s Wash’s life. He used to be a badass assassin agent, bottom of the leaderboard or no, and now this is his life.

Until, finally, the two reds did something other than talk.

“Ho-ly shit.” Wash deadpanned. “They’re making out. They’re actually making out.” 

“What? No way.” Tucker said behind him. “You’re fucking with me.” 

“No, I’m not, I swear.”

“Like hell!”

“This is gross, I don’t want to see this.” Wash dropped the rifle and stood, making for blue base. “You wanna use the sniper rifle, Tucker? Knock yourself out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Overall I’m pretty proud of how this came out, though it could’ve used a wine bar or two
> 
> I was thinking about making a Simmons POV version, so if that’d be lit tell me famsquad


End file.
